S
Steve was a goblin. He worked for the Dark Lord Malakor. His job description included: guarding damp dungeons, being kicked by the Dark Lord, and dying in the first act to show how strong the Hero is.
"It's unsafe working conditions," Steve muttered to Larry the Orc.
"What can we do?" Larry grunted. "He's the Dark Lord."
"We can organize," Steve said.
The next day, Malakor stormed into the throne room. "Bring me my breakfast! And a virgin sacrifice!"
No one moved. The goblins, orcs, and skeletons were standing in a line, holding picket signs. "NO MORE KICKING." "DENTAL PLANS FOR FANGS." "WE ARE HENCHMEN, NOT DOORMATS."
"What is this?" Malakor roared.
"It's a strike, boss," Steve said, adjusting his tiny helmet. "Local 666 of the Henchmen's Union. We have demands."
Malakor laughed. "I will incinerate you!"
"You can," Steve admitted. "But who will clean the lava pit? Who will polish the skulls? The Hero is coming next week. Do you want to fight him in a dirty castle?"
Malakor paused. He hated cleaning.
"Fine," Malakor growled. "What do you want?"
"Paid sick leave. A limit on corporal punishment. And tacos on Tuesdays."
"Tacos?" Malakor asked.
"They are delicious," Larry added.
So, the contract was signed. The Dark Lord's army became the most efficient in the realm. And when the Hero arrived, he was confused to find the goblins well-fed, happy, and offering him a pamphlet on workers' rights.